Un Lección de Amor
by September Severtana
Summary: After the Fall, Sherlock starts only speaking Spanish, because it's the language he speaks when he's sad. It's also because he misses John, and knows far too many ways to say it. However, he knows a lot of ways to say 'I love you' as well.
**I take Spanish, and my teacher told me something interesting about the verb _estar,_ so of course, being the scholarly person you know me to be, I had to write about it. Enjoy, and if I screw up the beautiful Spanish language, I deeply apologize. **

* * *

Sherlock remembered exactly how long in his life he'd been truly happy: 10:37 am on January 9th of the previous year to 5:59 am on March 29th of the current year. In Spanish, that was technically impossible.

* * *

His newest disguise was a Spanish businessman in Switzerland for the banking. Sherlock didn't bother speaking the country's true language; in the spirit of the rebellion he seemed to have lost, he only spoke Spanish. He knew how much he frustrated the other bankers (and Mycroft) but it didn't matter really. As long as the moles in this establishment didn't know who he was, Sherlock would keep speaking the language of the romantics, because French was all too snooty after a while.

"Dónde está su jefe estupido? Quiero verlo." Sherlock asked, feeling not too cheerful (not that he was ever cheerful these days).

The terrified employee, the one whom Sherlock had been scaring all week, said nervously, "Sir, please speak English." Sherlock simply glared at him for a few seconds, and the poor man stuttered, "Por favor, habla en inglés."

Sherlock nodded, and said anyway, "No."

The man tripped over himself running to his superiors, which was what Sherlock wanted in the first place. Stupid people, stupid world. There was only one person on this entire planet who wasn't incredibly stupid, but there was no chance for Sherlock seeing him any time soon. It pissed him off too much for words.

* * *

There are two verbs for 'to be'. One verb, 'ser', deal with things that are a part of someone, como personalidad y apariencia. Sorry, personality and appearance. Emotions, states of being, and locations are used with the verb 'estar'. If someone were to say 'I am tired', the phrase would be 'Estoy cansada'. In the past tense, well, tenses, things get a bit interesting.

* * *

Sherlock had given up on speaking English for the time being. If he wanted to speak Spanish in Germany, he would just gather more intel because people would think he couldn't understand them. Puedo entenderse! he wanted to shout at the lot of them. German was just very botched English, or perhaps the other way around. He didn't remember the specifics of the language family tree.

"Necesitaba esos archivos una hora atrás!" Sherlock shouted at the assistant manager a few feet away. "Trae esos a mi, ahora!" She shivered and said something nearly unintelligible, moving away from him. He sighed and went to get the files himself. No one could do anything right these days. He drowned in paperwork daily because Mycroft needed him to be an inside man, and he hated it.

Paper reminded him of John, because John read the paper every day, and probably was reading it right now. Sherlock wondered what sort of news could be occurring while he and John broke each other's hearts. Well, he probably hadn't broken John's heart that badly. They had never even kissed. _And who's fault is that?_

"Te extraño," Sherlock whispered to the wall. "I miss you, John." He hoped no one, nadie, had heard his slip. He wasn't allowed to speak English anymore.

* * *

There are also two versions of the past tense. The first one that Spanish students learn is the preterite tense, which deals with single moments in time, and happenings that start and end clearly. 'Nadé en una piscina ayer' means 'I swam in a pool yesterday'. If something happens in an unknown span of time or habitually, a different verb conjugation is used, the imperfect tense. If one were to say, 'She swam every night', the phrase used would be, 'Ella nadaba cada noche'.

There is a preterite tense conjugation for the verb 'ser', but there isn't one for 'estar' if the subject is emotional. Emotions have no clear beginning nor ending; they change without notice and constantly. But what if someone knew exactly when their emotions began and ended? Couldn't they use the preterite tense for their emotions then?

* * *

Sherlock huffed and swore, rubbing the paper cut on his trigger finger. That annoyed him a great deal, since he was supposed to dispose of the leader of a human trafficking ring in China today. Why on earth was he stuck in a desk job again? Mycroft really wanted to torture him, he deduced.

"Encuentra un vendaje!" A nearby stockbroker glared at the loud intrusion and snapped at him in Mandarin. Sherlock glared back; who dared take his gestures from him?!

"Necesito un vendaje, por favor," Sherlock said scathingly. He despised saying 'please', but John liked it when he did. Manners were something his parents had beat into his head, which he then ignored, and John gently asked him to use, which he paid too much attention to. If John asked him nicely to shoot himself, Sherlock would probably do it. He hoped with ever fiber of his Spanish-speaking being that John would never ask. Sherlock would do anything if John asked, which was why it hurt so much that John had wanted him to come back, but Sherlock couldn't.

He truly despised seeing John cry. He loathed it, porque lo hizo sentir terrible. It made him feel terrible. It made him feel stupid and unworthy and wrong and sad and heartbroken and like running from wherever he was to John's side and holding him close. He couldn't move, though. He couldn't run the 5058.67 miles to John.

That made him feel even worse. "Cállate! Todos cállate!" He just wanted everyone to be quiet. Sherlock had enough languages and voices speaking in his head. Too many of them weren't John.

* * *

Sherlock recuerda estar feliz, de once menos veintitrés por la mañana en el nueve de enero del año pasado a seis menos uno por la mañana en el veintinueve de marzo este año. Pero ahora, no está feliz. No quiere estar feliz sin John.

* * *

The days bled together. Sherlock never recalled which days were which because in an office building, people worked every day nonstop. He blended in far too well. This time, he was in America, tracking down an assassin by the name of Sebastian Moran. Apparently, the man was responsible for a great deal of Moriarty's dirty work being carried out. Sherlock would have bet mucho dinero that he was the sniper trained on John when Sherlock jumped.

He didn't bother talking to anyone in America, mostly since there were quite a lot of Spanish-speakers here. Speaking would only give him away, since he looked nothing like the average Hispanic person, or even the average person from Spain. Strange people were noticeable here, but not feared, which gained Sherlock no ground.

Mycroft had promised there was only one more mission after this, in Serbia. Sherlock could handle the damn paperwork until then, he knew he could. If it would get him back home to London faster, he would do anything.

He snuck out the back doors of the building, being as discreet as possible and avoiding the cameras. Ever since the Boston Marathon bombing a little while ago, there were new security cameras everywhere, and while that might help catch the criminals, it wouldn't prevent the acts from happening. Like right now, Sherlock wasn't going to let a few puny cameras stop him from killing the man who had tried to kill the most important person in his miserable and possibly short life.

There was no punishment befitting Sebastian Moran but a bullet through the brain.

Moran wasn't so hard to find if you knew where to look, and Sherlock did. He managed to take out everyone surrounding the assassin within minutes, alerting no one to his presence until he had Moran all alone.

"I knew you would find me soon enough." The other man smiled, and the sight of that sleazy, disgusting expression made Sherlock sick.

"Usted va a morir," Sherlock said, because it was a fact: Moran was going to die. "Voy a matarse."

"You think you can kill me? What if I kill you first?"

Sherlock shrugged, an odd gesture that John had taught him. "Lo no importa."

Now, this made Moran angry. "You don't value your own life?"

"No. Sólo la vida de John importa."

At this last statement, Moran rolled his shoulders and went for his gun, but Sherlock shot him point blank. No one was allowed to interfere in John's life but him. Maybe he took it a little too far, but if John could kill someone for him, he could never repay that. John had saved him so many times without even knowing it, and Sherlock was obligated to do the same, but it wasn't really obligation. It just was. Saving him, salvarse, was the most important thing in the world. But right now, Sherlock needed a hug.

* * *

The verb for love, 'amar', is a rather wonderful verb. It conjugates like any other verb, except when it's spoken, people will drop what they're doing to listen. Sherlock has never said any form of that word to anyone, but he wants to say, 'te amo' to John more than anything.

* * *

Serbia went fast, with only a bit of torture to worry about, but he should be used to that by now. London smelled amazing; that was the first thing he noticed after stepping off the plane. It smelled like home, not like sweaty people in used suits and crumbling office buildings, or the stench of desperation and too many teardrops. Rain permeated the air here, and exhaust fumes and gravel. There was no place else Sherlock would rather be.

"Listo?" Mycroft asked him.

"Sí. Listo." He was far too ready to go. He didn't even notice he was speaking Spanish still.

...

The door to the flat stood wide open once Sherlock got up the stairs, but no one was there. He called, "John?" throughout the place, knowing Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, so there was no one to inquire about the commotion. Sherlock checked all the rooms twice, every corner and wide open space, but John wasn't there. Sherlock had no idea where John had gone, and Mycroft had dropped him off here when he said he wanted to go home, but Mycroft had it all wrong.

221B Baker Street wasn't home if John wasn't there.

Well, if John was gone, Sherlock had to call him and ask where he was. He still remembered John's phone number, it had stubbornly lingered in his mind palace the moment he'd seen it, and he dialed it carefully, knowing John wouldn't recognize the caller ID. Who cared? Sherlock certainly didn't.

"Hello, it's John," the call was answered with. Sherlock nearly fell over at the sound.

"Te amo," he blurted, "te quiero, me importas tú, por favor, por favor, por favor ven a casa. Te necesito." I love you, I want you, I care about you, please, please, please come home. I need you. That was what Sherlock was thinking, but it didn't come out in the right language. He didn't mean to do that, and didn't realize he'd done it.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand you. Who is this?"

Sherlock's face fell immediately. Suddenly, all the pain was back. "No comprendes?"

"What does that mean?" John asked, but with his hand partially covering the mouthpiece, so someone else was there. "He said 'You don't understand'? Well, I don't speak Spanish. Do you think he's a solicitor?"

Sherlock had had about enough of this. Being stuck in the language was bad, but John thought he was a soliciting businessman from Spain, not the man who loved him more than he'd ever loved anything. He had a newfound hatred for soliciting businessmen from Spain. "Lo siento. Por favor, ven a casa. Lo siento." He ended the call with shaking hands. Sherlock couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. Of course, John would have moved on from him. He'd have a new girlfriend, una nueva novia, and a new flat, una nueva casa, and he had forgotten him.

Sherlock was once again on his own. He hated that more than businessmen.

* * *

If someone wants to say they are cold, they would use a version of the verb 'tener', meaning 'to have'. Saying 'tengo frio' literally translates to 'I have cold'. That's how Sherlock feels right now. He has cold draped over his normally too-warm body, and he can't trade it away or sell it. He has cold in his hands and in his limbs, and he can't be rid of it.

* * *

He laid despondently on the floor of the flat for a long time, letting the abundant dust in the air gather on him. Sherlock didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to speak English. His nonsensical mumblings were even more so, because very few people understood the language, much less the words. When he walked around London again for the first time since he got back, he hid in the shadows and refused to come out from them. All he wanted was to delete the memories of John in those places and replace them with this feeling. The city deserved to be as tainted with sadness as he was.

Maybe that was why he spoke Spanish: Spanish was the language he spoke when he was sad. French was reserved for anger and deduction, German for business, Italian for vacation, and English, English was always happiness.

He was so lost in thought, he barely noticed bumping into a person on the street. "Hey, sorry about tha-" the person cut off as soon as they saw him. "Sherlock?"

"Cómo sabes?" Sherlock asked. How do you know? But he didn't look up.

"It can't be." And then, Sherlock actually did look up.

"John?" John didn't look happy to see him, and so Sherlock took that obvious sign and began walking away, obnoxious tears trying to fall from his eyes. Why did he think he could go outside?

"Sherlock, stop walking right now!" Sherlock didn't listen. John was angry at him, and only wanted to hurt him. "Sherlock Holmes, you better come back here!"

"No veniste a casa," Sherlock protested, turning to face John. He didn't come home, so why did Sherlock have to come back? "No veniste. Te extrañé todos los días, y cuando yo vengo a casa, tú no estás. Qué debo hacer? Tengo que...tengo que ir." He turned back around and left. The whole thing was a vicious circle: the Spanish came from being sad, and he couldn't get out of the sad unless someone made him happy, but if John didn't understand him, he couldn't make Sherlock happy, which caused more Spanish.

Sherlock wanted to go to bed.

"Sherlock," John said sadly. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"Yo sé." Sherlock didn't stop walking. "No importa de todas formas." It didn't matter anyway. "Te amo todavía, y lo no puedo cambiar."

"Te amo? You said that before, on the phone call. What does that mean?" John just sounded curious, and a little desperate (maybe a little hopeful?). He didn't sound like he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, which Sherlock honestly expected. He deserved worse.

"Te amo," Sherlock replied softly. "Significa todos."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, and then ran up to him and kissed him. This really surprised Sherlock, so much that he didn't really respond right away.

"I love you too, you stupid git," John said, pulling back a little.

"What you said right after that undermined the first part."

John's jaw dropped. "You're speaking English again."

"It's because English is the language I speak when I'm happy." Sherlock smiled. "I'm happy again." He got another kiss for that.

* * *

Sherlock estuvo feliz para dos años, dos meses, diesiocho días, y algunas horas. Now, he's happy again. There's no clear ending in sight. That's not imperfect at all.

* * *

 **Did you see the pun I made there at the end? Anyway, please feel free to review and critique my Spanish, because I may able to write in English, but not necessarily in Spanish. Plus, it's a learning experience.**


End file.
